These are the records written in the Beginning.
Not upon parchment, nor carved in stone, but upon the very firmament of heaven.
Before men marked their deeds with ink and symbols, before even the sands of time gathered their ancient weight, the chronicles of the first age were woven into the tapestry of eternity itself.
I have known these words.
I was present when the threads of fate were first spun when the veil of Eden fell, and when the earth itself began to turn against its children.
And now, I recount what was written in those lost, eternal records.
The Bloodlines of Adam and the Shadow of Cain
After the exile from Eden's gates, Adam and Eve dwelled eastward, cast from the sanctuary of life into a world of thorns, storms, and shadows.
From them came the bloodlines of the earth — the mortal children of the Architect, born of dust and breath.
Their sons, Cain and Abel, were born beneath different omens.
Abel, keeper of flocks, offered his heart's purity to the Architect: simple offerings of firstborn lambs and the scent of burning fat, pleasing to the heavens.
But Cain, restless and dark of spirit, offered the fruits of soil tilled by his hand — yet born of pride rather than devotion.
When the Architect's favor fell upon Abel, a wound opened within Cain's soul.
In his bitterness, he gave ear to ancient whispers from the edge of the void — echoes of the Morning Star's defiance.
And in a moment of fury, he spilled his brother's blood upon the earth.
The soil recoiled.
The heavens wept.
The blood cried out to the Architect.
Yet the Architect, in His infinite justice, spared Cain's life.
He marked him, cursed to wander — a man of exile, whose bloodline would build the first cities of iron and stone in the broken places of the earth.
It was from Cain's line that the earliest sorceries were born: rites of blood, pacts with unseen things, and the crafting of weapons to wound both flesh and spirit.
In grief, Adam and Eve bore a third son — Seth.
Upon him the Architect placed favor, and through Seth the true bloodline endured.
Generations rose and fell:
Enos
Cainan
Mahalaleel
Jared
Each walked in the ways of the Architect for a time, yet with every passing age the world grew darker, and the blood of Cain's defiance spread like a slow, creeping plague.
The Days of Enoch and the Encroaching Darkness
In the days of Jared, a child was born: Enoch.
Unlike others of mortal flesh, Enoch bore a vision rare among men.
He spoke with angels.
He read the signs upon the heavens and the hidden names of the rivers and hills.
He carved the ancient tongue upon stone tablets, warning of the days to come.
Enoch beheld the Watchers — the fallen angels who had descended to the earth, defiling the daughters of men.
He foresaw the rise of the Nephilim, the giants and warlords, demigods who would subjugate the earth.
He rebuked them.
He cried out against their transgressions.
He walked so closely with the Architect that mortal earth could no longer hold him.
And so, in a moment of rare mercy, Enoch was taken — body and soul — into the higher realms, the first mortal since Adam to breach the veil since Eden's fall.
His absence darkened the world further.
His son, Methuselah, witnessed the corruption grow.
The earth filled with violence.
Men forgot the name of the Architect and raised temples to alien gods and ancient spirits.
The blood of the Nephilim mixed with mortal men.
Atlantis, Lemuria, Eridu, and other cities born from Cain's line and the Watchers' seed prospered in wickedness.
Blood offerings stained the soil.
Forbidden rites opened cracks in the veil.
The Birth of Noah and the Final Judgment
In the twilight of this age, Lamech, son of Methuselah, begot a child.
A pale boy, his skin like the glow of a clouded dawn, and his eyes reflecting a light no mortal fire could kindle.
His name was given by the Architect Himself: Noah.
From the moment of his first breath, the earth stilled.
Beasts hushed at his passing.
The winds held their breath.
Even the Watchers, bound in secret places, stirred in unease.
For Noah bore the unbroken bloodline of Seth.
His flesh unmarred by Nephilim taint.
He was the last vessel of the Architect's breath in mortal form.
In the ancient records it was written:
"When the earth is choked with blood and the heavens weep for the sins of men, one shall rise from the blood of Seth, and through him shall the earth be cleansed."
That hour had come.
The Architect spoke to Noah.
He revealed the decay of the world, the abominations of Atlantis, the blasphemies of Lemuria, and the broken oaths of the Watchers.
A flood was coming.
The heavens would tear open.
The foundations of the deep would rupture.
And all that bore breath would perish.
Only Noah would endure.
A command was given: build an Ark.
A vessel vast enough to shelter Noah, his sons, their wives, and the beasts of the earth.
The design was spoken in sacred measure.
The wood taken from the oldest groves, the pitch drawn from the resin of ancient trees.
For the rain would fall for forty days and forty nights.
The Collapse of Lemuria
Even as Noah labored, the world mocked.
The kings of Lemuria, high upon their crystalline ziggurats, scoffed at the warnings.
They wove sorceries of blood and starlight.
They opened gates to the deep places and called things best left unspoken.
The Watchers whispered to them through the rifts they had torn.
Lemuria, once a paradise of ancient forests and towering monoliths, became a land of shrines to madness and sacrifice.
I beheld it.
The priests chanted ancient names older than the world itself.
They sought to hold back the waters with spells wrought in blood.
They failed.
For the decree of the Architect cannot be undone.
The Deluge and the End of the First Age
And so it began.
The final beast crossed the Ark's threshold.
Noah's family took their place.
The heavens darkened.
The rain fell.
For forty days and forty nights, the earth drowned.
The sun vanished from the heavens.
The moon was swallowed by cloud and storm.
Temples toppled.
The towers of Atlantis crumbled beneath the rising waves.
Lemuria was consumed by fire and water.
The Watchers were bound in chains, cast into the abyss.
Only Noah's Ark remained, a solitary vessel adrift upon an endless, unbroken sea.
And thus, the First Age was ended.
The earth was washed clean.
The bloodlines of Cain and the Nephilim perished.
The great cities were no more.
Yet the war between heaven and the unseen shadows was not ended.
The story was not yet over.
I saw it all.
And I moved within it, as I always have, for I am the unseen hand beneath the tide, the storm behind the storm.
The records of the Beginning endure still.
And the next age awaited its own sorrows.